


The Incoming Tide

by ansketil



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-War, after yorktown, all things unresolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ansketil/pseuds/ansketil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Major Hewlett tells Mrs Strong of the British surrender at Yorktown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Incoming Tide

_Well, that’s it then…_

It seemed an indecent thought to have, carrying more than a touch of levity over such a grave matter – such glib indifference in the face of the sacrifices made by so many. It was a _Simcoe_ sort of thought, which finally made Edmund shudder and awaken from the shock that had stilled him, mind and body.

The possibility was one that he had never entertained, despite it all. _Vanity-turned-fear_ , Edmund let out a hoarse half-bark of laughter. Vanity, perhaps, but he could hardly call what he was experiencing fear, or even dismay, but the deeply familiar hollow shattering of certainty turned to failure. He found some sympathy for those stubborn unfortunates whose faith had left them unable to believe in the heliocentric system first proposed by Aristarchus, which Copernicus revived, Kepler expounded upon in his _Epitome Astronomiae Copernicanae_ , and Sir Isaac Newton furnished with final, inarguable proofs...

Yes. He must begin to think.  Edmund leaned back in his chair – this had always been a possibility, of course.  Something he should have prepared for. He would have to say something to the men, to –

He swayed for a moment, trapped by sudden vertigo in an inexplicable space between sitting down and standing up, eventually righting himself by means of his desk. He straightened his back. Perhaps gossip or propaganda had travelled faster than his courier… or perhaps he alone in Setauket knew of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis on behalf of his Britannic Majesty? The idea of being the bearer of such tidings to loyal subjects of King George such as the Woodhulls made Edmund queasy. What would they think of him, the officer sharing their home – imposing upon their hospitality – knowing that all of their hardships had been in vain? England had failed them. He had failed them.

They had suffered the horrors of battle and pillage, the violence of that monster Simcoe and his rangers, disowned rebel relatives and loved ones, had laid down the very headstones of their dead in defence of the British position – _his_ position – and for all that they were still to be cast adrift from their sovereign and protector on a perilous, uncharted course. They did not deserve such a fate – _she_ did not. Virtue had its own rewards, of course, but Edmund ground his teeth at the notion that all he could think of to console Mrs. Strong in her imminent distress were philosophical platitudes.

_Come with me._ The words swelled within him like a wave only to crash and swill against the confines of his rib cage in sickening motion. _Come with me to England._ He could not begin to fathom what the depths of her dark eyes might reveal in that moment; brought low by such bitter disappointment and she… _she_ once more the property of her renegade husband. It brought a fire to his stomach and he could hear his heart beating fast in his ears.

They had arranged to view the stars that night, as the often did. Richard had supposed at first that it was more, but Edmund had taken great pains to assure him that his relations with Mrs. Strong were purely platonic and that the pleasure of her society was the only token of affection he received; nothing untoward would ever occur under his friend’s roof. Edmund wrapped his cloak about his shoulders and rummaged around for his gloves. The autumn evenings had turned bitterly cold. He supposed that it would snow sooner than not, but the clarity of the firmament on such nights was sublime.   

He must be Major Hewlett tomorrow, unflinching and authoritative, so as to properly maintain the discipline of his men during the course of their retreat to those hollow ships that would return them across the Atlantic… or perhaps they would be called upon to go north? But for tonight he could take refuge in the beautiful and eternal.

Mrs. Strong – _Anna_ – was waiting by the telescope. “Edmund…” she said in soft greeting.  

He regarded her for a long moment. “Mrs. Strong…” he fought for words and she gazed at him in the darkness, tilting her head, while the moon – trapped behind a narrow band of cloud – did little to illuminate her expression.

“Are you well, major?”   

“I – that is to say – there is… I am sorry…”

“Sorry for what?” There was subtle alarum in her voice now, though her tone was level. He flattered himself that he had learned her manner well enough to divine the feminine emotions fluttering behind her collected features. The clouds shifted, releasing strands of moonlight: Anna’s dark brows were furrowed in concern, her pale face still and searching.

He steadied himself – it would not do to prolong this moment – best to have it over with.

“Was it the courier… did he have news?” Anna’s eyes were wide with anticipation, glassy. They were the first thing about her that had captured his attention. Large, long-lashed and darkly splendid; a cow-eyed Hera… yet there was some feeling emanating from her tonight which he found himself unable to place; a resonance like the quiver of a string once plucked.

“Yes, I – prepare yourself – it… we…” Edmund lost momentum, coughed, and then remembered himself. He was a man of science – he would not shirk from the truth. “We are defeated, Anna, on land and sea. And, with circumstances as they are… Lord Cornwallis has surrendered to General Washington. Well, technically it was General O’Hara who did the – ahem – actual surrendering… but comes to much the same thing.” He took in a breath of freezing air. “I am sorry.”

The quivering intensified. A flush rose in Anna’s cheeks and he could see, yes, there were tears in her eyes. “I… that’s…”

He stepped forward, ready to steady her if necessary, not quite daring to put an arm around her. “Courage is called for… most of all in defeat. I am obliged to depart presently and I daresay, once the news spreads, your husband will be returning to Setauket. It pains me to think that providence has not rewarded your loyalty, but I venture to hope that you and I…”

Mrs. Strong was not listening, looking away, perhaps ashamed of her tears. “It’s… I… I must tell Mary… and Abraham…” The names were sobs, strangled by emotion, as she ran back to the house, grey cloak streaming. “Abraham!” Anna vanished into the house, her shouts echoing after her.

Edmund stood by his telescope, staring after her, all but drowning in the words he had almost uttered. He found himself unable to follow. _Coward._ It was then that he heard Mrs. Woodhull’s voice from upstairs, uncharacteristically shrill, her exclamations lost on the wind. Edmund put a weary hand on the telescope. It was at times such as this that he missed the easy companionship of Bucephalus. A heedless race – he lowered his gaze – thundering hooves below him and the stars above… wild and so far removed from the painfully composed man who walked very slowly back towards the house.

Abraham Woodhull had gotten little Thomas out of bed and was whirling him about, Mrs. Woodhull was thanking God while embracing the weeping Mrs. Strong, and Richard’s solemn expression did little to alleviate their palpable relief he exuded. Edmund observed this scene with wide eyes, his lip trembling, flawed by such betrayal and his own foolishness. Gradually, the celebrants stilled – with the exception of Abraham, who stuck out his chin defiantly, and Thomas, who continued to giggle with delight.

“Bella detesta matribus… et patribus, eh?” Richard said quietly, clapping him on the shoulder, ever the voice of reason in such circumstances. “I’m sure your own mother has been concerned for your welfare – is your return to them not something to be grateful for, even in defeat?”

He could not imagine a war fought on English soil. These good people had suffered enough… yet he could not share in their earnest relief, though he tried to form a sympathetic smile. Mrs Strong and Abraham Woodhull were grinning at each other like children. Then Anna glanced across at him; flushed, awkward, and beautiful… and there was something vindictive in Abraham’s glance that he had never seen before, a dark glint of pride: “God rot the king!”

Edmund’s eyes widened. “Excuse me…” he nodded briskly, looking away, tightening his lips, and turning on his heel.

Anna’s voice followed him, but he did not hear her, castles of sand awash with the incoming tide. He had thought, perhaps, of remaining on Long Island after the war was won, but such plans were now impossible. Sitting down, he attempted to write to his mother, but found the blank paper too much to bear. He was a young man once more, his future abruptly cut away by circumstances he could no more alter than the earth’s orbit. Hands clasped together so tightly they hurt, he remained at his desk without words, prayers, or tears.

_How could he begin again_? A gentleman philosopher… he fit uneasily in his regimentals at first… but he had become what his family had expected and his duty demanded. Now… he could not bear to begin this again in another corner of the empire, not when he had seen in an instant what lay behind years of the feigned amity his position had accorded him. Yesterday, he would have been called upon to dispense the king’s justice for Abraham Woodhull’s treasonous exclamation. Now… the order of things had shifted and he no longer knew what was expected of him, but Edmund thought it ought to be more than this ache, which somehow managed to be both hollow and heavy all at once.  

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my head for some time. I have an idea to continue it, but I cannot promise I will do so with any degree of certainty or speed. Apologies for any glaring historical inaccuracies. Richard Woodhull was quoting Horace: "War, the horror of mothers" adding "... and fathers." Thanks for reading!


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